


Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by honeymink



Category: The Borgias
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeymink/pseuds/honeymink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemies Foreign And Domestic

**Author's Note:**

> This takes the season 2 preview into account. Sequel to "Drought Conditions".

At the end of August a flock of pigeons darkened the sky above the Vatican. Together with his sons and Cardinal Della Rovere, the Pope retreated to the _Bibliotheca Secreta,_ which with its thick walls panelled with the finest oak, vouched for a rare seclusion from Rome’s prying eyes and ears.

“And We still see him as a rock upon which Our work, Our love, Our great and ethereal plan may be crushed _in excelsis_ ,” Rodrigo Borgia remarked dryly.

Following the lustrous and sinful festivities on Assumption Day, it was not surprising to hear shortly thereafter the vitriolic attack upon the Pope by the friar Savonarola whose castigations, setting the tails of Florence on fire, were resounding throughout Italy.

Giuliano Della Rovere remembered the fateful day the friar told him he – the cleric in red – would bring forth the apocalypse. Still haunted by this vision and the reality of the bloodshed that had followed, the Cardinal swallowed hard, “Yet, every rock may be crushed.”

“What a victory! The first intelligent thing to ever escape from your mouth, your Eminence!” Juan applauded sarcastically. “If history has taught us anything, it’s that you can kill anyone.”

Staring at the _chiaroscuro_ frescoes Melozzo da Forlì had painted on the ceiling, Cesare snorted with disdain. A simple solution was tempting and would have surely been most excellent, had the Florentine people not accorded such credence to Savonarola, comparing his words to those of the Hebrew prophets of old.

“It would be imprudent to depose of him who claims to be God’s voice and therefore above His Holiness,” Cesare gave his brother short shrift. “Or we shall find ourselves amid a political uproar impossible to control.”

“God uses the good ones. The bad ones use God. _Non est ad astra mollis e terries via,_ ” the Pope bemoaned his predicament histrionically.

Della Rovere feigned a fine submissive smile. “To benefit Your Holiness, I wish I was more creative.”

“Why but you are, my dear Cardinal. You are great at creating difficult situations.”

A mocking expression played around the Pope’s lips as he reminded Della Rovere that it was him who had sought out the French first, possibly planting the idea in Savonarola’s head. Of course a solution was still pending.

“Well then,” the Pope sighed. “We shall issue a _breve_ ordering the good friar to Rome.”

***

The ferocity of the thunderstorms abated, but the heat and humidity increased. From the south of the valley of the Tiber swaying columns of fever-bearing mosquitoes had risen up out of the moor. The morning of the day that was dedicated to Saint Verena, the Pope had ordered the women to set off on an excursion, trading the paralysed city for the clean countryside.

In front of Vanozza’s house on the Piazza di Merlo, the cavalcade was ready to depart when Cesare led his sister down the stairs with determined steps. They held hands like children. Happiness on the lips, a bit naïvely.

“I shall miss you, my love,” Cesare said softly and, for all to see, kissed Lucrezia chastely on the cheek.

Under their mother’s complaisant but amused smile, they had retreated to Cesare’s chambers the night before for kisses less chaste. Unsure with regards to the length of their separation, it had been a frantic outpouring of love, where throbbing passions were too great to be contained.

As her brother lifted her into the sidesaddle, she felt that Giulia eyed Cesare with resentment for this conspicuous gallantry. Nevertheless Lucrezia lowered her body a bit and gently brushed her knuckles across her brother’s cheek.

“But I can ride astride,” she whispered with a devilish twinkle in her eyes.

A smirk crossed Cesare’s face, “Oh, I know, sis.”

Finally listening to her mother’s urging, Lucrezia sat up straight and tied the reins to her horse’s saddle. And the train of travellers set into motion. They rode along the Via Cassia, followed only by a few servants on mules. Those carried not too heavy loads since they were hoping for a short exile. In front of them, the road cut through fields and woodlands, its flat cobblestones reflecting shiny, silvery light here and there, which a pilgrim they met earlier had reverently called the path that leads to God.

Lucrezia wore with poise her puce silk gown with the pearl-studded bodice and chatted about inanities with Sancia, Felice even. Idle talk about the latest variations of the _passagita_ , _pavane_ and _pavanglia._ However, her disarray of long blonde hair about her shoulders and her mellow bemusement betrayed her.

“My husband is so light on his feet, indeed he is gentle sweetness himself,” Sancia averred fondly and without guile before she added with a lascivious laugh. “Of course our dear Juan displays more vigour and possessiveness especially during the _tordiglione_!”

Even the hint at anything sensual, made Lucrezia realise how much her mind centred on Cesare. Traces of a certain soreness left her with the intangible memory of her brother, remembering part of his body actually inside hers, crushing wetly, deliciously into her. Those musings made her shiver, as she pressed down hard on the rough saddle.

Despite the distraction, Lucrezia caught the provocative glance Sancia shot at Della Rovere’s uptight daughter. And as expected Felice answered curtly without blushing: “Now I would know nothing of this as I dissuaded his lordship’s advances.”

Thankfully, before the goddesses of lechery and modesty would clash in a battle of pointed remarks, Vanozza, from the front of the retinue, announced that they had reached their resting place.

Birdcalls grew rarer and died in the midday heat. Lucrezia watched her mother how she as a matter of course ordered the servants to set up for lunch. Meanwhile Giulia stood beside her, seemingly tense and unsure about her role in this, possibly wondering whether she should not enforce superiority over these affairs. After all, she was a noblewoman and the Pope’s favourite.

The _Cascate di Monte Gelato_ lay in front of them in all their magnificent glory. After hours on the road, the sour acrid odour of sweat was penetrating. Not just Lucrezia thought it appealing to cool down in the water.

“Now shall we play a little game?” Sancia laughed, her pine green satin dress already falling to the ground, the silver thread of the carnations on the trimming glistened in the sun.

Intrigued, Lucrezia still hesitated, “That game – would it be dangerous?”

Since her arrival in Rome, Sancia had lured the entire Borgia family, especially Lucrezia, into new excitements. And now she pulled the linen shift over her head. Shamelessly she stood there in the nude. The sun made her olive skin shimmer like bronze; her nipples were astonishingly dark in contrast. Fascinated by the sight, Lucrezia blushed and felt hot all over, sweated between her thighs.

“Only if Roman girls know not how to swim,” Sancia taunted and ran across the meadow to the shore.

Temptation made Lucrezia’s skin tingle. When bathing, it was custom to wear a shift tied around the ankles to keep it from floating up. Ambivalent and with trembling fingers, Lucrezia loosened the strings of her bodice. About to step out of her garments, she turned to Della Rovere’s daughter.

“You too!” Lucrezia demanded wickedly, slightly startled by her peremptory tone.

Felice bristled with cold rage as she was ordered around. “Really?” she asked thin lipped, but emulated Lucrezia’s deeds.

Finally freed of their constricting garments, Lucrezia stretched and opened her arms to the sun as if to embrace it. Her skin shone with an almost luminous whiteness. Imperiously she grabbed Felice’s hand and pulled her towards the lake that shimmered blue and clear only occasionally muted by tangles of blossoming lianas.

Lazy and carefree, Sancia floated on her back. In a violent gust of excitement, Lucrezia waded then swam towards her, ready to dunk her in. But Sancia, aware of her intentions, escaped to shallower ground.

“And there I thought you so prim and craven,” Sancia smirked suggestively. **** ****

At last, Lucrezia and Felice reached the shoal and splashed water at Sancia then at each other, raising whitecaps on the lake.

***

At the top of the hill, Juan dismounted to lead his roan Arab horse carefully alongside ravines and horsts, where water had eaten its way through the fine volcanic rock, down to the lake and its deafening cascades.

Seeking a short cut to Florence he had traded the Via Cassia for noisome mud-covered roadways. From farther above he had spied his mother’s entourage. Finally at the bottom of the valley, he watered the horse, a gift from Djem that he valued for its endurance and strong bone. Juan casually made his way over to the women.

“Dear mother, how lucky to have found you here!” he exclaimed, kissing her on the cheeks.

In ostensible harmony, Vanozza and Giulia lounged on a blanket surrounded by a light meal of partridges, parsnip tarts, stewed quinces and lemons, and fresh almonds. Of course the wine wasn’t missing either.

Vanozza surprised by his unexpected appearance shot him a worried look as she invited him to sit down. “Is anything the matter with your father or your brothers?”

Juan took a large gulp from his mother’s cup and heartily bit into a savoury thigh of a partridge.

“I may soothe your worries, sweet mother. I’m on a secret mission to Florence,” he finally said, proud of his father’s faith in him to handle such delicate matters.

Vanozza unsure if this was a good or a bad thing, smiled ambiguously at her son.

Juan, however, misread her expression and regret pervaded his words, as he added: “Father hazards once there are more and more ill with the fever, the sick ones will lock the well ones up. There would be chaos. It shall be a while until your return to Rome.”

Looking out to the lake, he saw Sancia, his sister and what must be the Cardinal’s daughter enjoying the fresh water playfully. Juan was drawn between a leer and a frown. Did his mother not worry about the servants’ gossip?

Suddenly, Lucrezia appeared to have spotted him. Out of the water, she swiftly pulled her shift over her head and ran towards him.

“Did you bring Cesare, brother?” she asked breathlessly.

At his negative answer, disappointment spread across her face.

“I am certain, he is terribly bored without you though,” he answered, his smile a bit lewd, a bit facetious.

Lucrezia blushed and licked her lips at her brother’s innuendo. Both Sancia and Felice had put on their flimsy undergarments by now and joined them for a collation. None of them had dried off properly and now the white fabric stuck to parts of their bodies, wet and translucent. Soon Juan’s erection pressed demandingly into his codpiece.

Not exactly tearing his eyes away from soft full thighs and firm breasts with hard nipples, all so deliciously different in shape and skin colour, Juan finally said, “I apologize for my neglect to greet you properly, my ladies. Seems I’ve lost my manners.” A hoarse chuckle escaped his throat, “Or would anyone here know the difference?”

As usual Della Rovere’s daughter couldn’t suppress a fine derisive smile, “Somehow I never had much use for your lordship’s manners _ab initio._ ”

“Oh, I’m not enamoured with yours either, Donna Felice,” Juan grinned. “Still I shall admit to not liking mine myself. Indeed I would grieve over them on long winter evenings.”

“Your honest repentance truly warms my heart,” she answered sweetly, crossing her arms over her breasts to shelter them from his lecherous looks. “And yet I wonder, is there no such thing as privacy anymore?”

“Only in bed, Madonna,” he drawled, feeling Sancia’s hand moving up his thigh. “And not always there.”

Juan didn’t mind being toyed with yet the idea of a ménage-à-trois with these two women, one wayward, one wanton was a painful delight to his groins. It was also a bit embarrassing with his mother and Giulia Farnese watching so closely. Thus, he was almost relieved when his sister pulled him away, laughing, to show him the most beautiful wildflowers as she declared excitedly.

So Lucrezia dragged him slightly away from the women and the servants. While the heat had scorched the grass it was still a colourful sight with meadow saffron, thimbleweed and autumn squill in bloom. They both lay down next to each other.

After an initial wordless closeness, Lucrezia appeared stunned into a sudden silence that seemed shamefully to scream out her desire to talk about Cesare. Seeing her squirming and writhing, Juan gained a malicious pleasure from his siblings’ secret liaison. Lucrezia took his hand and put it on her chest.

“Tell me about Cesare!” she demanded.

“You just saw him this morning,” Juan replied mockingly, but a moment later decided to indulge her, whispering hoarsely in her ear: “Would my sister have me tell her how my brother's soul is black but comely, his love better than wine due to the savour of his good ointments? How to him she is the Virgin Mary clothed with the sun? Or how thy lips, my sister, drop as the honeycomb when his fingers' steady thrust pulls away always once you crave to take him deeper? "

Under the spell of his voice and her own imagination, Lucrezia panted heavily. “Would he do that to you, dear Juan?”

But after the shortest moment of awkward silence Juan withdrew his hand and laughed at her, yet there was a glitter in his eyes like from rubble in an avalanche’s path. Perhaps a bit ashamed, Juan could never tell, Lucrezia quickly regained her composure.

“No,” she said, suddenly serious and worried. “Cesare’s hands, they are stained with blood. But how much, Juan? How much?”

***

On a cloudy, almost serene autumn afternoon, Juan finally returned to Rome.

Scintillating in brocades and jewels, his noble horse rigged in brilliant colours, gold ornaments, silver bells and plumes, the Duke had eclipsed even the showiest Florentines. Of course the _Signoria_ had held a banquet in his honours but the supercilious whispers of its members had not escaped him.

“Unlike his brother who could be seen to lay the great foundations to future power, the Duke appears a man of limited abilities and considerable vices,” Juan had overheard Machiavelli’s verdict.

The next day, the latter had taken him to Santa Maria del Fiore where Savonarola evoked God’s wrath to visit upon Rome, this greedy harlot, the queen of Hell, handmaiden to the Devil and the mother of illegitimate spawn who dared to challenge God with their bastardy and rampant delinquency, filling the papal coffers with ill-gotten treasures.

To Juan’s surprise the church was crowded to overflowing during the grim friar’s sermon. “Most exemplary how simple folk can be swayed by this sort of theatrical,” he had snorted crumpling his brown velvet beret with its gold tassels between his cold fingers. “The time has come to silence this ranting madman!”

But Machiavelli had smiled at him, condescendingly as Juan found. “Never hate your enemies, son. It affects your judgement.”

To add to his humiliation, that evening Savonarola had sent a minion with an answer to the Holy Father’s request. There, the preacher had ordered the Pope’s bastard to pass on to his father that it was not God’s will that he would go to Rome, later he had moved on to ridicule Juan’s pompous dress and impotent presence.

On the night of his departure, waves of anger had washed over him, especially at one member of the _Signoria_ who had found extraordinary pleasure in the most lucent indignities.

“Juan is more courtier than soldier, no guts for generalship!” Cesare’s mocking words to their father had been ringing in Juan’s ears as he had ambushed his enemy and stabbed him to death in a dark alley.

“I never cut a throat without knowing whose it is and why I’m cutting it,” Juan had hissed coldly, staring in the dying man’s eyes before he had spit in his face.

Two days later, he entered Rome through the Porta Aurelia and swore to God that some things would change.

***

The tertian fever had waned then a number of thunderbolts shook the city. It hardly rained but lightning ignited many fires and cracked the heavens for hours. At its climax, the powder magazine in the Castel Sant’ Angelo exploded, shattering the stonework. The noise could be heard as far as the river.

But finally Rome seemed safe again and the women arrived from their countryside exile. As so often, his father had held him hostage at the Vatican with inane assignments and it had not been until the third day that Cesare could finally return to his mother’s house.

He found Lucrezia kneeling in front of the home altar, praying to the Virgin Mary. In her honey-coloured velvet robe bordered entirely with a carmine silk ribbon on which Greek letters, spelling the word ‘fidelity’, were embroidered with gold thread, she looked enticing yet virtuous.

“Did you miss me, my love?” Cesare asked quietly, not wanting to startle her.

Elated to hear his voice, she turned around and flung her arms around his neck. He heard the clacking of her rosary’s beads behind his back.

“And those hands,” Lucrezia sighed as he let them slide down her back and rest on her bottom. “Even more than your lack of moral fibre.”

It was late in the afternoon when they stepped outside into the courtyard. Their mother was watering the plants on the second story loggia waving at them. She looked radiant in a robe of sapphire blue taffeta, its girdle beaded with round shimmering aquamarines between small crosses appliquéd with silver thread. However, the same couldn't be said for her companion. Strangely enough Giulia Farnese was with her, looking meagre and weary in a gold brocaded cloak with edging of shocking pink silk emblazoned with arabesques of gold.

His room only steps away, Cesare asked dryly, “How much would we preserve appearances today, sis?”

Looking up to the two women, her gaze lingering, it became clear that Lucrezia was disappointed. “Is it wrong that I wished to keep Giulia my friend solely?” Suddenly it appeared that reason subdued her desire. “Nepi had me dreadfully bored. May we amble along the busy streets of our glorious and holy city, Cesare?”

Offering her his arm, he smiled. In the low autumnal sun, they walked down to the Campo de Fiori area where most of the artisans and merchants carried on their trades. First Cesare escorted her to one of Rome’s finest tailors and embroiderers whose fashionable establishment was housed in an old mansion in the Via Mellini.

“You are looking more devilishly handsome than any man of God has a right to, dear brother!” Lucrezia laughed, looking at him then back at a pile of different shiny fabrics.

As often he had changed his cassock for tight leather breeches and a black doublet of interwoven leather and taffeta, buckled with silver clasps. A black velvet cape with crimson inner lining and a beret of the same material completed his outfit.

“Lucrezia, so charming!” he teased her, handing the tailor some ducats for the light blue scored silk his sister had chosen.

Outside again, Lucrezia seemed eager to return home. People on the streets knew them, and their staring and whispering was tiring to her. Still, he decided to drag her down the Vicolo del Bollo, where the goldsmiths and jewellers had their workshops.

Entering the darkness of a showroom, all they saw in the distance was the twinkling of gold chains in the soft glow of an oil lamp. Through a thick curtain the shop owner appeared and applied his attention to them.

“Your young wife is of ethereal beauty, my Lord!” he said slyly. “Yet her flawless neckline is so naked.”

The way the man spoke, putting a suggestive emphasis on certain words, assured Cesare that he had recognised them.

Looking at Lucrezia who seemed to expect Cesare to correct the misunderstanding, he asked amused, “But how shall we mend this sad state, _messere_? You see my wife is perfect.”

“Of course, my Lord, of course!” The jeweller was quick to fawn upon him. “We may merely look for something to underline her qualities.”

As the man was looking for the right piece, Cesare carefully guided Lucrezia in front of a mirror. A lace girdle accentuated her breasts. One of them he cupped briefly and stole a kiss from her lips. Spirals of arousal raced though him as he put his arms around her waist, drawing her closer. Avidly he inhaled the chamomile scent of her hair that was held back demurely by a net of gold thread studded with white pearls, a symbol of purity and nobility.

The jeweller, however, finally returned with a necklace of black pearls – so rare, strange and ominous. But Cesare did not care for such superstitions. And indeed the necklace looked most exquisite on Lucrezia’s pale skin.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered in awe.

Cesare smirked as he paid the price they agreed on.

***

When they left the shop, Lucrezia still felt overwhelmed and shaky, trying to process what had just happened. But her brother seemed in an excellent mood.

“He knew, Cesare!” she finally pressed through her lips. “He knew who we were. Everyone does. Why wouldn’t you…”

Cesare jerked to a halt and looked at her, rolling his eyes, “Everyone thinks they know! Why should we feign moral outrage? They would gossip just the same.”

“Is that so?” Lucrezia said nervously.

With a half smile he looked at her comfortingly. A moment ago, she wasn’t sure if she actually felt exposed and angry. But now that she had manipulated her brother into thinking that he had embarrassed her and made him feel a bit guilty about it, her spirits were lifted.

Her gaze still lowered, she staggered a bit sideways into a narrow alleyway between two houses. There in the dim light she leaned against the wall as if she was dizzy and sighed. With a worried look on his face, her brother came after her, came closer and caressed her burning cheek. As she slowly looked up, a little mischievous sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.

Cesare smiled. “So we are playing a game now?”

Lucrezia brushed a strand of his thick black hair back and nodded, excited in anticipation. He kissed her softly, suckled a bit on her lower lip. Fire flashed along her legs. His knee slid between her thighs, as he pushed her heavy skirts up over her hips. Pressing her into the wall, she arched against his knee unconsciously. Cesare squeezed then stroked along her thigh. At last, he reached her heat, stroked back and forth, in and out. Once he brushed against her sensitive nub, he had Lucrezia panting with need.

“Have you no word of pity for me, Cesare? I heard women grow mad when they are treated thus,” she urged for more.

“You are delightful, my love,” he whispered affectionately. “Unjaded yet so shameless.”

A cry of protest perched at the tip of her tongue, but a delicious desire raced through her, stirring her in creamy voluptuous secrecy. As she writhed shamelessly against the wall, she couldn’t find words to defend her virtue. Instead she helped him undo the leather strings of his codpiece.

Again he slid aside her garments, and lifted her up. Obedient, compliant, her legs rose, parted and wrapped around his hips, her arms around his neck as he pinned her against the wall. Lucrezia looked up; saw windows where colourful clothes hung to dry and gasped at the pressure of his searing touch. So she kissed his lips again and he moaned and held the small of her back. In that dark space, Cesare finally plunged into her harder and harder, made Lucrezia see stars when she closed her eyes.

“They will say that,” Lucrezia moaned with trepidation, her face now buried in the side of his neck, “we worship our own flesh and blood in the frenzy of self adoration.”

Cesare groaned, “And is it giving you a delicious little thrill of horror, sis?”

A muted cry escaped Lucrezia’s throat, and she shed hot exquisite tears of relief. Moments later, Cesare shuddered and spilled inside her. They almost collapsed on the ground, curled together for a moment, pulling each other close. Cesare took Lucrezia’s hand and kissed it. Soon after, they walked down the Piazza di Merlo towards their mother’s house.

“I love my necklace, Cesare!” Lucrezia said and smiled as they linked their little fingers.

***

A black silhouette against piles of heavy lead-coloured thunderclouds, the Castel Sant’Angelo loomed in the night.

“More words from God in Florence on Our culpable character?” Borgia enquired mockingly as Della Rovere entered his chambers in the Vatican. _Such splendour of finest tapestries and ebony architraves!_

“There is nothing the matter with your reputation, Your Holiness.”

Nigh the dais of the Pope’s sumptuous bed covered by Alexandrine velvet, the Cardinal knelt low, his lips upon the Ring, his head bowed until the Pope raised him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh indeed?” he replied, fully aware of their amusingly spurious affectations. “I’d rather flattered myself that there was. So the good friar would not grace Us with his presence?”

Della Rovere smiled ambiguously. He was neither surprised at the preacher’s refusal to come to Rome and thereby denying the Pope’s authority nor at Borgia taking a merry delight in excommunicating Savonarola and threatening Florence with an interdict.

“Perhaps Cardinal Carafa would appreciate the opportunity to prove his loyalty to the Holy Father and bring the stray sheep of San Marco back into the fold,” he suggested slyly.

It was no secret the Neapolitan Cardinal sympathised with Savonarola’s cause. It was also no secret that Della Rovere held a grudge against Naples. Despite or maybe because of it Borgia seemed to enjoy this devious game.

“An artful idea, my friend!” The Pope approved, smiling.

***

Pebbly rain was striking the windows, a bleak wind billowing the scarlet draperies.

Three weeks had passed, during which a raging storm broke through parts of the roof. Shingles and timber collapsed onto the next ceiling, which caved in and tapestries and furniture from the floor above fell down on the throne of Saint Peter. There in the _Sala del Credo,_ holding an audience the Pope had been buried under a dusty heap of wooden beams, broken stones and masonry. Hours later Rodrigo Borgia had been salvaged from the ruins, hardly injured.

All over Italy one could hear people whispering, “Surely the miseries that man could not inflict upon us this terrible year are being heaped down by God Himself!”

And setting his ban on preaching at defiance, Savonarola added fuel to the flames, “See how God ravages and punishes Rome, the whore of the world who perverts the soul of mankind! And His ire is intended for just one name: Rodrigo Borgia!”

“Since he would not see it fit to apply himself more to Our cause, perhaps it is time for Carafa’s ecclesiastic collar to be replaced.” The Pope was frothing with rage. Now, there would assuredly be war of many kinds.

“It is just like the first time I came here, is it not? We were talking about qualities like honesty, probity and goodness, only you were thinking about murder.” Della Rovere laughed, without levity of eye or voice.

“Oh and you were thinking about fighting me to the end and beyond. An exercise in futility really, We must not linger on such trifles. We are both rotten.”

The Pope’s magnanimous triumphant smile was repelled by the Cardinal’s unflinching glare as he stood militantly, arms wrapped tightly over his chest. Finally Della Rovere bowed in taunting obeisance.

“Only you are a little more rotten, Your Holiness,” Della Rovere adulated.

“Now those are harsh words to throw at a man, my dear Cardinal. Especially when you are sitting in his bedroom,” the Pope smiled, amused.

Cesare had come to endure these exchanges of repartees, a game the two old men seemed to enjoy. However, in his mind they were postponing mandatory measures. But perhaps that should not have surprised him as his father with his honed words and damnable ideas always drew on him for their execution.

“Carafa has fled to Naples, it is rumoured that he feared the dagger and the poisoned cup of the Vatican. As long as these allegiances are in question,” Cesare mentioned casually while going through a pile of notes a servant had just handed to him, “it would be in our interest to divest the Caetani of their fiefs for if they sided with the Neapolitans, the latter shall soon stand at the gates of Rome.”

The Holy Father nodded thoughtfully, “A sensible plan indeed. Juan –“

“Yes, I was about to inform Your Holiness that one of His less successful exercises in paternity is here,” Cesare clenched his teeth as he announced his brother.

Since his return from Florence, something had changed in Juan. No longer did he display a flamboyant style but dressed in drab serious clothes, much like Cesare himself when he wasn’t forced to wear his cassock. Juan’s demeanour was more nettlesome than ever but there was also a new sober brutality to his brother that made Cesare fear he would grow into his military duties after all.

“So it would appear that we could make good news out of bad practice, my son!” His father ended his explanation. Juan knelt before him, vowing he and the papal army were ready for the task.

It had to be expected that he would not play an active part in this, yet Cesare felt rage overwhelming him as he skimmed through the rest of the notes until he stumbled over something unusual.

“Isabella –“ he exclaimed in surprise and almost could not parry when his father shot him an expectant look, “… Her Most Catholic Majesty has finally consented to my dear brother’s betrothal to her niece.”

***

With a start, Lucrezia turned her gaze from the window, looked with astonishment into her brother’s eyes, and read from them the ruthless nonchalance of an intruder caught in the act and from his lips an outrageous demand.

“The strongholds on the Via Appia are ours!” Juan boasted, implying that at least part of his shameful failure against the French had been obliterated. “Giacomo Caetani was arrested and imprisoned in the Castel Sant’Angelo,” he grinned, shaking a small vial filled with white powder. “A momentary lapse of judgement, soon to be rectified.”

Lucrezia stood as if struck by some great terror. “You would poison him?”

“Never mix it with sugar though. Our dear brother and his manservant taught me that,” Juan went on as if lost in thought before his gaze fixed on her. “But then you know all about it, sister, don’t you?”

His sharp words were very well placed, alluding to Micheletto’s lessons and her subsequent poisoning deeds. But there was something else in them, something horrible, something to do with Cesare. She wouldn’t let him get to her though, Lucrezia decided when Juan walked up to her with a smug smile, taking great pleasure in whispering in her ear about unthinkable acts everyone had previously kept from her.

“You would not lie to me, brother?” she enquired, shaking.

For minutes nothing was audible except their breathing and the gushing rain outside in the background. Although driven by petty jealousy, Lucrezia knew Juan was telling the truth or a close version of it anyway.

“I love him still!” she declared defiantly.

“Then you wouldn’t want to see more blood stain his hands, sister?” Juan grinned broadly. “See, I shall take care of Giacomo but I cannot shoulder all this responsibility myself. Yet we shall tear out the weed by its roots. There is still one Caetani left, you know. Of course could you not, I’m sure Cesare would…”

Lucrezia nodded and replied with haughty irritation, “There is nothing I would not do to save both of my dear brothers’ souls.”

“You mean, after you condemned them?” Juan’s brief and rough kiss on her lips blindsided her. “If you bestow your favours on that decrepit cleric generously, you should not even need the vial.”

Her mind in great turmoil, she sent for a messenger. Even the next day, when she was granted her audience with Cardinal Caetani at the Vatican, Lucrezia was shaken with both worry and anger at all the lies and secrets. She would have never thought that she could have these adverse feelings towards Cesare. And yet she loved him.

Lucrezia went calmly with gentle but firm steps. At the door to the Cardinal’s quarters she only hesitated shortly before she entered. The old man rose from his chair and Lucrezia curtseyed and kissed his hand.

“What brings you to me, my child?” he asked confused.

Merely dressed in a mantilla of gold brocade with some red silk ribbon braided into her hair, Lucrezia’s hand clutched around the vial.

“I am troubled, Your Eminence!” Now more secure in her performance, her voice was childlike. “How would one discern right from wrong?”

She stepped closer, the old Cardinal’s face reddened. However, all colour made way for a deathly pallor, once Lucrezia opened her cloak.

“The insolence!” he gasped but no air seemed to fill his lungs.

There she stood, naked and watched his bony fingers reaching out to her.

“My father – the Holy Father - said if one meddles with wicked people, one is like to be tainted with their wickedness. I listened. But in my heart, Cardinal, I would not understand,” she sighed deeply as she briefly touched her chest.

Stertorously, he sought to reproach her but his knees bent and he fell, his head thudded against the heavy wooden desk. Lucrezia held her breath, thinking again about Cesare and all the hatred she felt but all the love as well. It was, she realised, not unlike her feelings for Juan, only so much stronger.

Once she was certain that he was dead, Lucrezia buttoned up her cloak, closed the old Cardinal’s eyes and made the sign of the cross. Taking one of the sweetmeats from a small silver bowl on the desk, she left the room calmly with gentle but firm steps.

Juan had been right after all. The mere excitement of her feminine charms was enough to take its deathly toll on the old man. She did not need the vial. With sudden resolve, she understood she had to talk to Cesare.

***

Over this despair another storm broke loose, hours of thunder and lightning tearing heavens apart, shaking the ground with convulsive vibrations and dumping more cloudbursts upon the roofs of the Holy City.

These last weeks, Cesare had occasionally indulged in the most shameful thoughts; to take Lucrezia and escape, perhaps take refuge in Venice or Istria where nobody would know them. A phantasm, a chimaera that never took tangible form.

Then her letter arrived and Cesare thought if only Matuzzi was dead, perhaps there was if not a solution at least a delay, perhaps Lucrezia would not have to shoulder the burden of marrying for the advancement of the family alone.

“It has been a long time,” his sister said. “You come unexpected.”

“You wrote,” he answered simply.

“My husband is ill with the fever,” she nodded and indicated that they may sit in the parlour.

All of a sudden, the cruelty of his presence occurred to him. Isabella had asked for a doctor but instead there came Cesare in his priestly robe, ready to administer the Last Rites. What seemed practical before appeared to him now as downright evil.

“Remember when Pedro Luis visited Rome?” she smiled, amused at the memory. “You were a young boy bedazzled by our brother’s bejewelled attire and military bearing. You swore that should once be your life!”

“A magnificent soldier, a princess as a wife and honoured by a king! I remember,” Cesare said and smiled also but a bit sadly.

He looked at his sister. Although almost thirty years of age, her pale complexion was flawless, she had a high forehead and bright blue eyes; her raven hair fell down to her waist. And after all, his mother had been slighty older when she enticed their father. So it was hard to part from this idea, evil but feasible at once.

“What about it then, brother?” she asked interrupting his train of thought.

Cesare was confused. Couldn’t she see that this abhorrent cassock prevented him from any suchlike achievement?

“Was your marriage one of love?” he asked, seemingly unrelated.

For some reason he expected her to flinch as he used the past tense. But she didn’t.

Instead she laughed, “Has no one ever told you that one does not imply the other? Pietro is the chancellor’s right hand. He knows where everyone’s dirty secrets are hidden in the papal archives.”

“And I reckon father made ample use of that,” he laughed without joy.

For a moment they sat there in silence, when a flash of lightning bathed Isabella in a chalk-white light, Cesare was frightened that she might be dead. But that had been the other sister years and years ago.

“Remember Girolama?” she asked thoughtfully.

He nodded, thinking about how they had found her and her husband in bed, dead but not a scratch on them, obviously poisoned.

“Father had raged for days that the only verdict was vengeance, a vendetta held as a votive not in vain,” he almost imitated Rodrigo Borgia’s tone of voice. “He is still that way, should you wonder.”

There didn’t seem more to say. Isabella did not mention her husband again. He would die or he wouldn’t. Cesare knew he left without having achieved anything.

“It’s not all dismal, Cesare!” Isabella promised seemingly innocent, as she saw him out. “I hear you have got the princess, have you not?”

Cesare’s throat clenched in panic, but with the rain falling in such sheets that even the nearby house had vanished, a drowsy numbness prevented him from protesting. Then he saw the smirk on her face. It was strange that it came to him like a sudden insight, as if he had not known before: They were related indeed.

“Take care of our sister,” she said.

Cesare smiled and kissed her cheek.

***

Before, days seemed to float lazily as if they drifted on the surface of a broad and calm river. Now, his impending nuptials brought about a lively, nervous vigilance in Juan. Despite or because of his newly found maturity and clout: Shouldn’t there be one last conquest?

The rain drifted away in a leaden-gray veil above the Orsini palace. He found her in her chambers. For once she wasn’t in her widow’s habit but dressed in a robe of crimson atlas that was embroidered with many precious white pearls.

“I see you have made yourself available, Donna Felice. That is a nice dress, it would go great with the floor,” he bawled a filthy remark without any introduction.

“Oh, it’s never too early for cheap innuendos, is it not?” she said then added with a token gesture, pointing at the young woman next to her. “My cousin Lucrezia.”

Juan took a moment to look her over. Lucrezia della Rovere wore a dress of black and gold silk blended with flax, a short gold chain of oval topazes on her neck and jewels on her head of not much worth. His judgement was quick: Perhaps an appetizer, hardly the main course.

“Charmed, so charmed!” he cooed and licked her hand more than he kissed it. “If I seem a bit sinister, it’s because my hold on life is too slight to include any prudery.”

From the corner of his eye, Juan realised that Felice felt uncomfortable. Only a short while ago, he might have flattered himself, calling it jealousy. But he knew that she contrived to have little to do with her female relatives.

“Sinister, maybe. But above all, so drab! Where has all your plumage gone, my Lord?” she feigned concern before adding provocatively. “It almost appears to be a form of mimicry, does it not? Would it not have been for me, Lucrezia might have mistaken you for your dear brother and asked thy rod and thy staff to comfort her.”

The cousin giggled, a bit salaciously, Juan found. As far as Felice’s comment went, it compelled admiration but also sparked irritation. Did she speak of her cousin or his sister? It was so polished, so exquisitely arrogant that she must have meant the latter.

“I would give you a piece of my mind, Madonna!” Juan hissed.

But a mischievous smile on her lips, she didn’t let him finish, indeed fuelled his anger, “Oh, I couldn’t take the last piece.”

In a way, he admired her. Illegitimacy did not appear to make her feel inferior to the rest of her family. In fact the reverse was true. A Cardinal’s daughter and the blood of a pope running through her veins, she thought herself cut above them all. Indeed, the same was true for him. Yet Juan lacked this confidence, in fact was apprehensive whenever he thought about how he would be perceived by his future noble spouse and the Spanish court.

Quickly dispelling these uneasy thoughts, he countered blatantly, “You can take anything if you want it enough!”

Juan got up, went behind the _dantesca_ chair and placed his rough hands on the cousin’s bare shoulders. His wolfish grin intensified by his now grown facial hair, he fixed his eyes on Felice.

“Your achingly beautiful cousin for example,” Juan challenged, slowly stroking her neckline.

And Felice glared at him. _What a triumph!_ Not long ago she had insinuated that he wasn’t as ruthless as the rest of his family. She had meant that to be a compliment. Judging from where he stood now, he had been a moron to understand it as such. _Cesare_ , it was always Cesare people feared and admired.

“But I’m engaged, my Lord!” Lucrezia della Rovere whispered shakily.

A lovely blush crept up her neck and deepened on her cheeks. His lips upturned to a knowing grin. With enough flattery, curiosity would win over chastity.

With cruel joy, Juan squeezed Lucrezia’s shoulders tightly as he spoke up, “You have to speak louder, my love, we cannot hear your murmuring.”

“My cousin is engaged to Marcantonio Colonna,” Felice declared, adamant, like someone who was in charge. “Surely, his favourite son must understand as much as his judicious brother obviously does that the Holy Father would expect him to display the most sublime virtue given the current political tensions.”

Juan frowned at her honeyed arrogance and resisting force. A wave of helpless anger washed over him, directed at her, at his father, at Cesare.

“Such sapient concerns for the preservation of public peace! I shall speak to the Holy Father, He must beatify you instantly!” he sneered, barely keeping his fury at bay. “And of course, should your _prudentia_ manifest in _bellezza,_ I shall not mind your lack of maidenhood and continue debauching virgins at a proper time.”

Like a beetle trapped in amber, she stared at him, deadened. “You would have me further our acquaintance, so Rome will be protected by the enormity of your stupidity, for a time.”

“If you will,” he shrugged and suddenly seemed bored by the conversation.

Felice’s brows rose, she exhaled sharply.

“But you hardly know him!” her cousin squeaked.

Reminded of her presence, Juan looked down at her young cousin. Just seeing him so virile and darkly handsome, listening to his words of male dominance and determination, Juan realised that Lucrezia Della Rovere eyed him with a mixture of virginal shock and mounting desire.

Felice stifled a joyless laugh. “Me seems, to hardly know him, is to know him well.”

With a dismissive hand gesture, Felice suggested her cousin may leave.

“Charming, so charming,” Juan kissed Lucrezia’s hand once more. “Your beauty is beyond compare. One day Raphael shall paint you!”

He would have her later.

Now finally alone with the Cardinal’s daughter, Juan guided her to the bed. Rough and ready, he rolled her to the side and undid the laces, until her dress hung loosely across her. Nuzzling against her neck, he ferociously pulled the dress from her body and threw it on the floor.

Felice’s face took a numb expression between fear and nervousness – he couldn’t tell which. Unsure of how to proceed he drew her towards him and looked at her.

“Your marriage had been consummated?” he asked, suddenly a bit doubtful, suddenly a bit… weak.

Juan clenched his teeth – _weak_! He pulled his brown leather breeches down over his hips. He would never show weakness again.

“In the harshest possible manner,” she laughed bitterly, biting back the tears. “Thankfully the devil took him quite quickly.”

For a moment he thought of his sister and how Lucrezia had come back from Pesaro. Beaten but not defeated. And yet it had not been right. Felice next to him held her breath and waited. Juan looked at her, and suddenly felt more like himself again.

“You know, it can be very pleasurable,” Juan said with honesty and softly stroked her cheek. “I will show you!”

Because in the end, unlike with Cesare, he did not have to prove his ruthlessness to her.

***

When the growling water, rising, ever rising, had inundated several neighbourhoods with black creeping swells and the silent irresistibility of death, the Pope, clasping his face in both hands, was gazing down upon the flood.

In the lull of the third day, he ordered that after evening mass at Saint Peter, which he personally would be ministering, they would walk in penitential processions in areas of higher ground.

But so far planning the liturgy had not been a success. A complacent look on his face, Burckard had presented liturgical lyrics written by Pius II. in finest Latin. The litany talked about comeuppance, collective guilt, and plea for divine mercy. Nothing extraordinary. But to Cesare’s surprise, his father’s response was a furious outrage, so vocal that Burckard pulled himself together only with difficulty.

Already accused by Savonarola of being the source of the latest portentous events, the Pope would not yield and was not willing to consider any form of self-incrimination.

“This nuisance of verbose humanist jingling…”

The church service was only an hour away, yet by an act of providence Cesare managed to leave his father in his struggle with Burckard. Earlier, Lucrezia had sent him a notice that she would meet him in Saint Peter.

His eyes adjusting to the dim light in the church, Cesare could not see her but had a good idea where he would find her. Left of the altar a narrow staircase led to the capitulars’ stalls. Once Sancia and Lucrezia had ensured a scandal as they had hidden there during mass rustling and twittering, drawing all eyes. _Profaners of the Holy,_ Burckard had called them but Sancia had laughed in his face.

“So did you smother Matuzzi with a pillow? Or did you watch our sister doing it like you would with Djem and Juan?” Lucrezia, sitting on one of the benches, enquired soberly. “What other lies have you told me, brother?”

Carefully, Cesare walked up to her on the creaky wooden planks. She looked up to him with an impeaching and careworn stare, he could hardly sustain. _Juan, that treacherous rat_.

“You said, we would only destroy those who want us harm!” she went on, louder, angrier this time – most likely because he would not answer. “How did my Moor harm us, Cesare?”

Frozen there in the darkness, Cesare knew that nothing but the truth would do. All these deaths were not merely acts of helpless, blind self-care. Most of them were vile and perfidious serving their own advancement.

“Father needed his riches for your dowry,” he said dryly. “You suspected that yourself at the time, did you not? Did you ever really believe it was the swamp fever?”

“Djem would come to me in my dreams, and now I know he was accusing you!” she spat, her voice full of disdain. “And you made our brother a murderer! What other lies and misdeeds?”

However quietly Lucrezia repeated these questions and accusations, he could barely utter a sentence or look her in the eyes. Downstairs he could hear the worshippers enter. His eyes gliding over his Cardinal’s robe, he felt anger bitter as gall welling up his throat.

Cesare pursed his lips, clearly agitated, “Oh, I killed many, sis! Out of spite, out of necessity, out of self-indulgence. So does Juan, I ought not seduce him. And you? Would you not go and ask Micheletto for poison all by yourself? We are all the same!“

Finally he dared looking up at her. Incantations could be heard from below. _Sancta Maria Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus._ Tears streamed down her cheeks. It wasn’t a game this time and his blind spot for dismissing her flaws proved not a serious hindrance.

“One moment you want to be mature and callous, the next you break down childlike and overwrought because you cannot bear it,” he laughed, a bit sadistically even. “Would you finally choke your guilt, sis? Because we shall do it again! For our own pleasure or because it is father’s final word!”

 _Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum._ He never wanted to hurt her but this hypocrisy had to end or it would destroy her. And him. Because if anything happened to her he would die.

Gently, he brushed away the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Mama says, father’s word is never final,” Lucrezia flashed him a mocking smile. “Because he is not God.”

Cesare stifled a laugh. The incantations had ended. Lucrezia got up, came closer towards him.

“I still hate you about Djem!” she said coldly.

“I know,” he shrugged with a thin smile.

When she bent forward and kissed him violently, even bit his lip, it should have come unexpectedly. But for some elusive reason, Cesare had anticipated it and grabbed her hips, turned her around, pressed her to the balustrade.

“Perhaps,” he panted, playfully pushing against her bottom. “We should embrace our faith, and if it is only faith in our spiritual and fleshly devotion.”

For a moment they both looked down on the faithful kneeling in front of the altar, the seats of the high-ranking cardinals on the side, and their father on the papal throne holding his sermon of penance. _Ad te clamamus exsules filii Evae ad te suspiramus, gementes et fientes in hac lacrimarum valle._

Slightly turning her head towards him, Lucrezia let her fingertips slide softly over his jaw line, “We are blessed with faith then.”

Thereupon, he took her hand and kissed circles on her palm, starting at the base of each finger, and moved down into the centre. As she turned around to observe the events in the nave of the church, Cesare stroked her hair back, undid her plaits, her angelic golden locks falling down her back.

Reflecting on his dogma a bit more, she laughed softly, “Only you would say ‘devotion’ the way other people say ‘transgression’.”

Cesare chuckled hoarsely. An instant later, his hands were planted on her waist. The left one moved up the bodice of her bright white silk dress seamed with little silver stars embroidered on an apricot damask ribbon. Carefully, he cupped her right breast, kneading it gently with his fingers. Tugging less gently at the fabric, he finally freed at least part of it from its confines. Then he licked his thumb and his forefinger, and gently rolled her nipple between them. Cesare’s breath warmed her cheek. While Lucrezia’s chest rose with every breath of air, blood rose to his groin.

“Are you really wicked, Cesare?” Lucrezia whispered; her eyes fixed on her father’s figure, so small beneath them.

His pulse quickened, “How badly do you want to know, sis?”

Despite everything they had done, shame still fought with pleasure in her, which brought about a vicious amusement in Cesare. Abandoning the hardened tip of her breast, leaving it to the chilly air, he reached down under her skirts and explored her thighs from behind, sending hot shivers racing across her skin.

“I would not suffer any more lies and secrets!” she attempted to sound strict but could barely focus on her thoughts.

But he could not break the silence and his hand slid up her leg instead. _No promises!_ Cesare felt like he had sold his soul – to her, to their father, now and then to their mother even. Sometimes he wished he could take the pieces and scatter them to the wind.

Obviously perceptive of his turmoil, his sister did not insist on an answer for now. Instead her small hands pulled her skirts upwards to her bottom. Cool air swirled around her legs. Before long, Cesare had ripped his red robe open, buttons flying off. Still staring down, the images of the rituals below blurred, Lucrezia thought she could still smell the incense as she bent forward at the waist, clutching tightly to the banister.

“How is it that I would tingle all over, Cesare?” she asked nervously.

Was she worried about handing over all control to him? Oh she should be! Or perhaps merely feared her knees would buckle beneath her. He watched her grabbing on tighter, burying her fingernails into the brittle wood of the balustrade.

“I told you about danger, did I not?” he smiled and soothed her like a sick child. “First there is nausea. Once you get through it though, it makes you very, very loving.”

With his thumbs Cesare parted her folds as she arched against his hands. Slowly and gently he pushed into her slick, swollen heat. With each thrust he whispered words of love and encouragement. Lucrezia’s lips parted as she breathed hard through her mouth.

“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae.” their father’s voice echoed through Saint Peter.

 _Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto._ Cesare closed his eyes, his lips silently completing the prayer, while he took his sister from behind, clutching her hips, riding her hard. Her breath came in pants as he rocked them both towards heaven.

“A fiery outpouring for the cleansing of the spirit,” Lucrezia whispered exhausted.

For a moment, Cesare leaned against her limply and they looked down upon their father. The service had ended and now, with solemn trudge, priests marched bearing aloft the Crucifix, the monstrance holding the Blessed Host and precious relics.

Properly dressed again, they followed them quietly then watched them from the steps of the cathedral. Writing rhythmic signs of fire into the darkness with their hundred torches, the procession moved toward a bright glow. Cesare stared a long time at those flames that grew smaller and smaller, and tried in vain to discover the form of the Queen of Heaven in the flames.

“It takes a lot of lights to make a city, does it not?” Lucrezia said in awe and took his hand. Raising herself on tiptoes, she kissed his cheek and whispered. “I still hate you about Djem.”

***

But later, when the high water had receded, the first need was putting the dead in the soil and reactivating the ancient aqueducts that brought clean water from the hills to the fountains in the city.

Furthermore, some pro-Borgia men had been elected into the Florentine _Signoria._ God was smiling again on the Pontiff.

Both him and Della Rovere had dismissed the proposed trial by fire as graceless and unholy. Apart from the common people who seemed to enjoy such carnage, burning random monks – Franciscan or Dominican – had no appeal to the educated. Yet, Borgia was eager to close this chapter once and for all.

“I think you wanted people to see the before first,” Della Rovere suggested a trial.

Angry, hunched and sore from an uncomfortable evening with Giulia Farnese, the Pope failed to see the point: “And why is that, my dear Cardinal?”

“Because otherwise, Your Holiness couldn’t take the credit in the after,” he replied dryly.

Borgia sighed, “We are tired, Giuliano. Let’s have Don Micheletto deal with this.”

Indeed the mere mention of the assassin, sufficed to turn Della Rovere’s stomach. Still, if the friar died, maybe so would his nightmares.

Sitting next to him on the bench in the alcove, Borgia patted his hand, “You will see, it shall be touching how this murder will keep our friendship alive in all these years to come!

Della Rovere shivered and clenched his jaw at the prospect. “Before my taking office in Avignon, I would like to request to retreat to seclusion, a monastery in the Apennine, so I may atone for my sins, Your Holiness.”

“Sins,” the Pope contemplated and went silent for a moment. “Savonarola knew the risks, he did not have to be there. It rains, you get wet!”

Then Borgia nodded wearily and dismissed Della Rovere with a more limp than condescending hand gesture.

Thus in gloom and silence Savonarola passed away; first strangled, then burnt.

***

A week after their return from the city by the Arno, Cesare was still enraged. Even more so really, after he had talked to his mother.

On their trip to Florence, Juan, put into charge by their father, had screwed up royally in his clandestine exploration of the territory and his observations of the monastical habits. The hiding place he had chosen was less than ideal, but Cesare had let him proceed, surely to gloat at his failure, even his possible demise. But fate wouldn’t indulge him.

In the end Micheletto’s meticulousness decreed the unreasonable friar’s end and they sidled off in dark cloaks on dark horses, still seeing the bonfire from miles away. Back in Rome, their father only paid tribute to Juan and his cunning scheme, rewarding Micheletto with a purse of fifty ducats.

“I was told a hungry man is an angry one. Did our dear sister not let you lap up her juices lately?” Juan sneered, entering the torch-lit cellar. “Or is it still that grim fantasy of yours to take my place?”

The predator in Cesare recognised his brother’s eagerness for attention.

“Shall I laugh now or wait until it gets funny?” Cesare remarked dryly, and then added so cordially that Juan narrowed his eyes in suspicion, “But I would not strain at a gnat. You still have broad shoulders, brother. And finally dress like a worthy opponent. Shall we hone our skills then? The choice of weapon is yours.”

Darkness wrapped in cruel pleasure made Cesare generously point at the chalked wall where his collection of arms was mounted. Hesitantly, Juan approached the wall and grabbed one of the bladed weapons. He held the weapon up as if for a skyward salute, then let it spring into place with a sharp rush.

“Ah! A sabre! What a fine choice,” Cesare approved mockingly. “Thinking a lot about Djem lately, dear brother?”

Juan grinned and flung his sober brown velvet cape to the floor, “Perhaps I long for a new brother… in arms.”

Picking up another one, the sabre - a light cutting and thrusting weapon made to target the entire body above the waist - lay cold and comfortably in Cesare’s hands. Tactically, he fixed his gaze on Juan. Aware that he would give anything for the right to plunge his weapon into the hard muscles and the soft flesh of his brother, he stepped forward. The fight began.

“But you would not fail at finding new sisters… in bed,” Cesare spat as he thrust forward, forcing Juan to take a step back. “Not ours though. Say is it really a coincidence that the blushing maiden went by the same name?”

“Perhaps,” Juan grinned now in attack mode. “Without doubt, given my bad memory for names it made things easier screaming her name when her dripping virginal quim devoured my prick. A Colonna surely didn’t deserve such a delight.”

Cesare clenched his jaw and couldn’t contain his rage and envy anymore. Weapons clashing, he violently chased Juan across the room. Breathlessly, they stopped as Cesare scored pressing the sabre’s tip against Juan’s chest.

“Mother had to patch her maidenhead with pine resin and alumstone!” Cesare hissed. “Della Rovere would have wrung your neck. And since you proved immune to advice in the past, I should have let him do it!”

“Kill me? Your younger brother? Father would never forgive you!” Juan grinned and took a breath before lifting his sabre, getting back in position. “And how would you advise me, Cesare? You are a cleric. I am a Duke. Soon I will marry a real princess, you have Lucrezia but it must always be in secret. I will have legitimate children. Perhaps our sister will bear you a bastard.”

Not finding any amusement in Juan’s words, Cesare now more than ever wanted him to know how it would feel to be at his mercy and to see exactly how merciless he was.

“Would you rather have this be a measuring contest, beloved brother?” he seethed, clashing his sabre harder against his brother’s.

That damn grin could not be wiped of Juan’s face. “I'm not scared of what's down there,” he taunted, pointing the tip of his weapon at Cesare’s crotch. “Or is cock fighting illegal in the Holy City? “

Finally Cesare managed to knock the sabre out of Juan’s hand. It slid along the floor beyond his reach. The duel was over. At least the one with blades. Cesare took both weapons and hung them back up on the wall.

“You sound more in love with men than women,” he smirked, arching one eyebrow.

“Me? Wouldn’t that rather befit the cleric?” Juan came behind him, slightly touching his hip. With his mouth at Cesare’s throat, he whispered, “But how would we find out, I wonder?” He feigned stunned perplexity then shock at his idea. “I know! Let’s all dally in our sister’s bed tonight!”

Boiling with rage, Cesare breathed in, feeling his excitement growing as sadism reared his head; a wild beast on the prowl. It would have been easy to grab a dagger from the wall and stab Juan who was unarmed. But as much as Cesare found the French’s idea of honour during war ridiculous, he still couldn’t bring himself to commit such an act.

Instead he turned around quickly, wrestled with him. They shoved and pushed until they found each other share caresses as they stammered or embraced without speaking and at last took their first steps together. Then Cesare tilted his head; bit Juan’s neck and earlobe. Finally he pulled him down on the floor by his hair.

“Or we could make it an orgy,” Juan teased hatefully as Cesare pressed his whole weight down on him. “Both fair and virtuous Lucrezias and our hardworking cocks!”

His brother had stopped struggling under him. But beyond his body’s misery that Cesare had inflicted, Juan’s face appeared mysteriously victorious. More anger flashed through Cesare: He wanted Juan raw and scared and his. As his brother opened his dirty mouth again, Cesare urged four fingers of his right hand in, reaching down Juan’s throat.

“Who are you really jealous of? Me or Lucrezia?” Cesare hissed, surprised for this was the first time it occurred to him that it might not only be him who harboured feelings of envy.

Juan gagged and Cesare withdrew his fingers.

“I think we both know,” Juan growled with triumph in Cesare’s ear as he rubbed against his groins that were just as unbearably hard as his.

Cesare got up and looked down at Juan with a sly grin. “And you used to be such a pretty boy!”

***

An icy fog drifted along the streets of Rome fading into a black autumnal sky. The moon was rising and threw the light of a pale mirror into her room.

Lucrezia lay in a tub of steaming water, advising her maidservant to put some rose essence in the water. Still from the small red vial Giulia Farnese had given her and promised that it would smooth her skin. Water sloshed against her aching muscles, so she slid down until her whole body was covered.

Somehow, she remembered the day in the Vatican Gardens. Pinturicchio had painted her while Giulia had given her instructions. About beauty, about men and a woman’s power over them. Why would she seek her mother’s presence now? All coupled together as if Vanozza had suddenly stopped hating her.

When Cesare entered, Lucrezia tilted her head back briefly and smiled. Her brother, however, did not lift his gaze from the luxurious scene, and waved by the maidservant, indicating that she may leave.

“Oh Cesare!” she was excited. “There is something I would tell you but I dare not.”

Her brother knelt behind her and brushed her hair. “Have you been spying again, my love?”

Lucrezia nodded eagerly. The sparks were just barely kept secret from him and smothered his mildly amused indifference.

“So you are criminally well informed, sis?” he smiled mischievously. “Then you must tell me!”

For a moment Lucrezia bit her bottom lip in thought, her eyes still glittering at him.

“I shall trade you: One secret for another! You first!”

Her brother nodded thoughtfully and took the pitcher filled with warm water. “Close your eyes, my love!” Once she complied, he poured water over her golden locks and rose higher on his knees to run chamomile soap through her hair. “For a while I planned to abduct you, going to Venice maybe, where nobody knows us. I could have become a condottiere. I even peculated significant benefices so you should live like my princess.”

Lucrezia felt a pain in her chest looking at his eyes that shone so brightly as he talked about a future that would never be.

“What made you change your mind?” she whispered brokenly.

Cesare snorted, “As I told you before, we are who we are. Borgia and all the same,” his voice got lower, sadder, “Perhaps one day father will let me be what I want to be. And you, my love, as unhappy as father’s politics will make you again, could you be happy without the family?”

Lucrezia shook her head, exhaled deeply and nodded in understanding. After a moment of silence she felt worn-out by the heaviness of spirit. She forced a smirk and a giggle.

“But that is nothing like my secret, brother!” she taunted. “You ought to give me something more wicked!”

Cesare refilled the pitcher with water and rinsed the soap from her hair, stroking over her head softly. He thought about their family and how sometimes it seemed they were their own worst enemies.

“Our dear brother Juan,” he paused, seemingly unsure whether or not to continue. “I think he wishes to bed me. Perhaps even both of us.”

 _All these sensual news!_ Lucrezia was aroused, yet a bit worried. “But you would still love me, Cesare?”

For a brief moment he smirked, strung her along, tortured her a bit as he seemed to think it over. Then he turned her head to his, his fingertips gently touching her skin and kissed her. “I will never love anyone like I love you, sis!”

She kissed him back, smiled happily. Then she turned around again, eager to give him something worth seeing. Forwardness suppressed ladylike manners. She threw her arms outwards against the wooden outer wall of the tub in the reclining pose of a woman in bed inviting the decent of her lover; body leaning gracefully for its full exposure, eyes of seductive intensity and languor, moist lips.

“Your turn, sis!” Cesare growled as he picked up a soft wet piece of cloth and rubbed over her body tenderly. Over her neck, breasts, belly, leg and finally, letting go of the cloth between her thighs. Lucrezia moaned distractedly until his voice brought her back to reality. “It better be good!”

Glassy eyed she looked at him, still so excited by his touch. The warm water put her in a daze as well. Lucrezia wriggled in the tub, then finally decided to get up. Cool air surrounded her and she shivered until Cesare wrapped her in a heated linen cloth, the maid had prepared.

There was something of the joy of discovery in her voice, when she started, “Mama understands so well how papa can be swayed, even dominated by a woman, she said. But that woman must cater to him slavishly and unquestionably.”

“Now that’s hardly news, sis,” Cesare mocked.

Wide-eyed Lucrezia looked at him. It almost remembered him of that time when Djem had told her about striped tigers and unicorns that spoke in meters only known to Allah.

Diligently, he dried her off, in the process, making her moan again. Her skin was rosy and soft as velvet. Her long hair stuck to her damp arms, back and breasts.

“But that’s not all,” Lucrezia pursed her lips, a bit insulted. “Papa fornicates with one of his young penitents.”

Cesare grimaced, thinking about his mother who surely must feel humiliated again. Lost in thought he discarded of the linen cloth and carried Lucrezia to her bed that was covered with white fine linen, vermillion velvet cushions and an ermine bedspread. Carefully he put her on the furry blanket, then lay down next to her.

“You will have to do better, would you want to impress me, my love,” Cesare declared amused, wrapping her in the blanket, lazily fondling her beneath it.

Soft moans and sounds of ecstasy escaped from her lips as he caressed her breasts.

Lucrezia swallowed hard. “Yesterday night I went down to the kitchen but stopped at mama’s bedchambers. And I… spied,” her voice cracked a little. “Giulia’s head between mama's legs!”

Maybe for a very short moment surprise had crossed his face, but it had escaped her. Cesare didn’t appear shocked at all but stifled his laughter. Perhaps the wickedness that ran in the family didn’t solely come from their father’s side after all.

The fog had lifted. Lucrezia looked outside, “A sky of diamonds just for us!”

Cesare smiled and softly kissed her mouth.

 

**~Fin~**


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